The Dark Side of the Sun
by Mornwey
Summary: Everybody lies. Everybody has secrets they never want revealed. And Jim Gordon secrets are about to catch up with him in spectacular and devastating fashion...
1. To the Dancers in the Rain

**Rating:** R  
**Warnings:** Violence, character death, language...and people may have cause to take issue with my portrayal of our good Commissioner...  
**Disclaimer:** 'The Dark Knight' and 'Leon' belong to various people who aren't me. And apologies to the almighty Pterry for nicking the title of one of his books.  
**Notes:** Um. I wish I could justify this, I really do. But to be honest, I watched 'Leon' and 'The Dark Knight' in the same week, and plot bunnies started breeding, and...well, when I actually thought about it, it just made too much sense _not_ to write.

**Prologue**

He'd heard it said before that when someone came out of a coma, the first thing to return was hearing. This, apparently, was bullshit, because the overwhelming sensation as he clawed his way back to consciousness was _pain_.

His arm was in a cast, his ribs were almost certainly broken, and his chest felt like someone had taken sandpaper to it. He couldn't see - the world was all blurry shapes and distorted patches of light and shade. There wasn't a part of his body that didn't ache. Even his _hair_ ached, completely against all reason and logic. But more than anything else, it was the strange and simple clarity of the world around him that brought home the severity of his situation: he'd been out long enough for the drugs to completely clear his system.

And it was then that the memories hit him.

He closed his eyes against the unexpected sting of tears and tried to work out how he'd fucked his life up so badly.

**Chapter One - To the Dancers in the Rain**

_Twenty Years Later_

On becoming Commissioner of the Gotham Police Department, Jim Gordon had learned three things. One; that days off were now a thing of the past. Two; that a demanding, high profile, and dangerous job was _not_ conducive to a happy marriage. And three; that left on their own, things tended to go from bad to worse.

He liked to think he wasn't doing a bad job as Commissioner. He'd held the post for two months, and he was starting to get the hang of it. The fundraisers were excruciatingly boring, the paperwork was neverending, and he had to move heaven and earth to get any actual _policework_ done...but he was, to his utter bemusement, _good_ at it.

Of course, Gotham being Gotham, there had been three attempts on his life since he'd taken the post. The last one had come perilously close to succeeding - the bullet had clipped his side and buried itself in the wall behind him. He'd be alright, though, of that he was certain. Close on thirty years as a cop had honed his reflexes, and unexpected commissionerhood hadn't magically robbed him of his instincts.

The shallow wound in his side was throbbing. There was a bottle of painkillers in his jacket pocket, but he was reluctant to touch it - being injured wasn't a rare occurrence, and he knew all too well the consequences of becoming dependent on drugs.

His secretary - and wasn't _that_ a hell of a novelty - put her head round the door and said politely; "Sir?"  
Gordon blinked at her and struggled to remember her name. "Yes-" He took a stab in the dark "-Laura?" She smiled, and he breathed an internal sigh of relief.  
"Accounting needs the signed payslips for this month," she said; "They're on your desk..." she eyed the stacks of paperwork; "...somewhere."  
Payslips, payslips...he'd seen them, he was sure he had... He shifted a pile of performance reports and emerged triumphant. "There. Anything else urgent I've forgotten about?"  
"Assuming you remembered to approve the new duty rosters, then no."  
"Good. I'm going home."

He passed the oncoming night-shift on his way out, getting salutes and 'sir's from the younger officers, and a cheery 'night, Jim' from Staff Sergeant Cooper, who'd been with the force even longer than Gordon had. Cooper had been the one to show him around when he transferred to Gotham PD twenty years ago. Ranks may have changed, but to Cooper he'd probably always be the wary new kid with freshly acquired glasses sitting uncomfortably on his face.

His car was parked at the back of the station. Driving in Gotham was a nightmare - even this late at night there was a queue at every red light - but it was still the best option. The public transport network was a disgrace, and only the terminally foolish or suicidally brave dared walk anything more than a few blocks.

The slam of the car door was comforting in its familiarity; the seats were stained with coffee and ash and less identifiable substances, the smell of smoke clinging to every surface. Gordon breathed deep and sighed. Coffee and cigarettes, faint hints of gunpowder and blood in the background. Smells that had meant 'home' for as long as he could remember...as if on cue, the bottle of pills in his pocket rattled.

_Just like the old days_, his subconscious said mockingly; _all you're missing is a better suit._

He turned the key in the ignition and drove away.

**xXx**

Gordon let himself in through the back door of his apartment. He found himself opening his mouth to call out a greeting, but the place was dead, cold and empty. Feeling vaguely foolish he closed his mouth again. Of course. Barbara and the kids were 'visiting' her parents. He couldn't find it in himself to blame her. Not after Dent and the Joker and everything else that had happened.

_Is this what happens?_ he wondered, easing himself onto the sofa with a carton of reheated Chinese in one hand and an inexpertly wielded set of chopsticks in the other; _You try your best to go straight and stay clean, and the universe fucks you over anyway?_ Or maybe not. Other people seemed to do okay - maybe it was just him.

He fell asleep like that, one arm hanging limply off the sofa to trail on the ground, the empty takeaway carton resting precariously on him stomach. Red and white lights from passing traffic chased each other across the cracked plaster of the ceiling.

He didn't dream.

**xXx**

The next day was a Wednesday. The sun rose weak and watery over a city firmly in the grip of the midweek blues: last weekend a distant memory, the next an eternity away.

Gordon was woken at the crack of dawn by the frantic ringing of his phone. He rolled off of the sofa - the carton was dislodged and fell to the floor, scattering grains of rice and cold kung pao chicken on the carpet - and made it to the phone by the third ring: "Hello?"

"_Commissioner Gordon_?"  
"Speaking. What is it?" He squinted blearily at the clock on the windowsill and grimaced. Whatever this was it had better be good... he sank back into the couch, stifling a yawn in his sleeve. What he wouldn't give for another hour's sleep...  
"_There's been an attack on Arkham Asylum._"  
Gordon sat bolt upright, wide awake in an instant. "How bad is it?" _Please tell me no-one got out_.  
"_Three of the guards have been killed, and a dozen injured. We managed to drive them off but we think they may be regrouping._"  
He was in the bedroom by this point, scrabbling through the drawers for fresh clothes, the phone held tenuously in place with his shoulder; "How many men do we have there?"  
"_Four squad cars on scene, another seven on the way. SWAT are heading over as well._"  
"Right. Divert all traffic away from the Narrows, and get a perimeter set up around Arkham - no-one gets in or out without my clearance."  
"_Yes, Commissioner_."  
"I'll be there soon. Keep the situation contained until I arrive."

Without any further pleasantries he ended the call and tossed the phone on to the bed. He dredged up a clean shirt and grabbed his keys and cell from the coffee table on his way past. By the time he was pulling on his jacket, he was already down the front steps and halfway to his car.

He was fairly certain he broke every traffic law in the book getting to Arkham.

_...to be continued..._


	2. Eperdu

**Chapter Two - Eperdu**

There was something about the Narrows: something dark and insidious and _alive_. For years they'd terrified rookies assigned that patrol with stories of the ghosts of Arkham's former inmates, still insane and stalking the streets. Gordon had never bought a word of it.

But now, since the fear gas and the chaos it had brought, they told different stories. Half fascinated and half horrified, they spoke in hushed tones of screaming nightmares in the mist, men crazed with fear and drugs, and the horrible experiments the patients had suffered. Half of the new recruits thought it was just another story made up to frighten them: they didn't seem to believe it.

_Gordon_ didn't 'believe' it, but for him it wasn't a question of belief. He knew. He'd been there.

The young patrolman at the bridge was stubborn in his adherence to the orders he'd received, that all traffic was to be diverted, but his partner had the wit to realise that the Commissioner's car was probably an exception. The older man rolled his eyes apologetically as he waved Gordon past.

As he drove into the maze of narrow streets the district was named for, he wasn't surprised to see that it hadn't changed a bit in the eight months since the...incident. The Narrows never changed. It took a certain kind of person to take living so close to Arkham, and as long as Arkham was in business, the Narrows would remain the dark, sinister warren of alleys it had always been.

He parked a block shy of the perimeter and walked the rest of the way. A certain brand of organised chaos was reigning, and Gordon felt a faintly smug grin threatening to rise at how well his men were working. But of course that wouldn't do at all under the circumstances. He assumed a businesslike expression as he approached the cordon.

"Commissioner!"

He still wasn't quite used to answering to his title, so it took him a moment to realise that whoever was shouting was talking to him. He turned and saw Lieutenants Sarah Goldman and David Harris, two old hands from the pre-Batman days, hurrying towards him.

"Well?" he said.  
"The area around Arkham's secure," Harris said promptly; "We've got patrols sweeping the area to pick up the attackers."  
"And Arkham itself?"  
"No-one's escaped," Goldman replied, then rolled her eyes; "As far as they can tell, anyway. We had the Director kicking up a fuss about our 'lack of action', which wasn't much help. He isn't the brightest penny in the fountain."

Gordon snorted in agreement. He preferred not to to think back through Arkham's various Directors for the past twenty years, because he always arrived at the disturbing yet inescapable conclusion that the only halfway competent one had been, unbelievably enough, Jonathan Crane.

A sudden commotion from the other side of the street had them all looking round. A large man with the physique of a gorilla, and the sort of face any policeman would arrest on sight on general principles, was being dragged with some difficulty towards one of the many armoured trucks idling in the street.

"Looks like we've got one," Harris remarked.  
"Good," Gordon said; "Let's find out who he's working for."

Ray Greenan, as his name turned out to be, had refreshingly few qualms about rolling over on his employer. Unfortunately this was not particularly helpful, as his employer was clearly an intelligent person and had ensured that he knew as little as possible. All he knew was that fifty bucks had been slipped under his door along with a note saying that he'd get another five hundred if he joined the attack on Arkham at a specific time and date.

Goldman kicked at an inoffensive rock. "Well that's..." Here she gestured inarticulately.  
"Maddeningly unhelpful?" Harris suggested.  
"It's a start," Gordon said, stepping down from the back of the truck and locking the door behind him. "We know we're dealing with someone smart."  
"What was the point, though? Harris asked. "If they didn't break anyone out, why bother? It's almost as though it was just..."  
Gordon felt the blood drain from his face at the exact same moment Goldman's mouth fell open. "...a diversion," he finished, and swore. He turned on his heel and strode around the cordon, snapping out orders. "I want a floor-by-floor sweep of Arkham from top to bottom: report anything suspicious immediately. Alvarez, get me dispatch records for the last two hours, and Harper, I want contact with the station maintained at all times. And get everyone we can spare out on patrol. _Now_!"

He lit a cigarette - under the circumstances no-one would begrudge him a little stress relief - and glared up at Arkham's grimy brick facade, practically vibrating with nervous energy. The whole force was jumpy. The setup reeked of a master plan, and the mess with the Joker was fresh enough in everyone's minds for that to make them extremely uncomfortable.

The cigarette was almost down to the filter when there was an abrupt crackle of static over the radio. A slightly distorted voice came through the speaker: "_Commissioner?_" The officer sounded young and faintly nauseous; "_You should come up to the Director' office. I think you'd better see this._"

**xXx**

"He's dead," Goldman said, staring.  
"Very dead," Gordon agreed, leaning in to peer at the body. The Director - he made a mental note the learn the man's name before the funeral - had been neatly stabbed from behind, cleanly in and out at the base of the skull. His hair was matted with blood.  
"He's _dead_?" Harris echoed incredulously.  
"It's difficult to fake a gaping hole in your skull," Gordon replied patiently. He stared with an odd sort of fascination: his pen was still clutched his his stiffening hand, halfway through filling out a patient report. And clutched in his other hand...  
"He can't be dead!" Goldman protested; "We saw him, we _spoke_ to him. He was alive when we arrived, alive when we set up the cordon, still alive when you arrived!"  
"Look at this," Gordon said, delicately removing the sheet from the Director's hand.

He tossed it down on the table, and Harris and Goldman craned to see. It was a low-quality printed photo of Terry Fielding, the DA who had replaced Harvey Dent. And written neatly on the photo, in still-wet ink, were the words; '_if you liked that, you'll love this..._

**xXx**

Occasionally, Jim Gordon wondered what on earth he'd done to deserve his job. Then of course he remembered, cringed, and vowed never to think anything like that ever again. So instead of wasting his time and breath with questions he already knew the answers to, he took a deep breath, pushed his glasses up his nose, and started to speak.

"Right," he said to a conference room full of various police personnel; "Less than an hour ago, the Director of Arkham Asylum was found murdered in his office."

He slid the crime scene photos out of their file folder and tacked them up on the whiteboard behind him. They made for an eerie tableau. From the front you could amost believe that the man was dozing at his desk, but the ones taken from the back and sides showed a gory stab-wound at the base of his skull.

"Whoever did this got inside a police cordon, killed this man so fast he didn't even have time to drop his pen, and got back out again without a single one of us noticing a damn thing." He let this sink in for a moment before leaning forward and adding, serious as a heart attack: "We're dealing with a professional here."

Gordon turned to the whiteboard again and tacked up a larger copy of the photo he'd found with the Director's body.

"This was found at the scene. We already have an officer with Fielding, but we're going to want to get this mess sorted before any further precautions become necessary."  
"Did Forensics test it for prints?" someone asked.  
"Yes," Gordon replied, and let the absence of any good news speak for itself.

Arrangements were made about lines of enquiry for their investigations, but Gordon didn't hold out much hope: he had a sneaking suspicion that they weren't going to hear a thing from their mystery assassin until he went after Fielding. Even in Gotham, however, using DA's as bait was frowned upon. So he dispatched a few officers to harass Forensics, several more to talk to various contacts and informants, and retreated to his office to try and work out how he the hell was going to deal with the situation. What a fucking _nightmare_.

"Sir?" Laura said, putting her head round the door; "Someone from the Mayor's office is here to see you."

There was a hollow _thump_ as Gordon's forehead connected with his desk.

**xXx**

Twelve hours later, no significant progress had been made. Gordon had retreated to the roof in the hope that reporters, officers, and minor officials would stop trying to talk to him. He stood in the shadows of the wall, smoking a cigarette in a manner which suggested it had personally offended him, and occasionally casting dirty looks at the shattered Batsignal.

"Long day, Commissioner?"  
Gordon tilted his head and looked askance at the darkness to his right. "My men have orders to shoot you on sight, you know." He stubbed the cigarette out against the bricks by his shoulder and added. "CCTV didn't show a thing, and there were no prints. I don't suppose you've had any more luck?"  
If he didn't know better, he would have thought the Batman sounded irritated: "No."  
"We're watching Fielding, and I assume you are too. I don't think we'll hear a thing until our killer makes his move."  
"We'll get him."

Gordon nodded in agreement and opened his mouth to respond, but a sudden absence in the shadows let him know he needn't bother.

_...to be continued..._


	3. Garlands

**Rating:** R  
**Warnings:** Violence, character death, language...and people may have cause to take issue with my portrayal of our good Commissioner...  
**Disclaimer:** 'The Dark Knight' and 'Leon' belong to various people who aren't me. And apologies to the almighty Pterry for nicking the title of one of his books.  
**Notes:** I apologise for not having updated as quickly as I'd like. Apparently (As those of you who keep an eye on my LJ may have noted) being doped to the eyballs on painkillers is not conducive to writing.

**xXx**

**Chapter Three - Garlands**

Days passed without any significant progress on any front whatsoever. The Head of Forensics - a tiny Indian woman called Jaladhija Nagheenanajar, known universally at the station as Doctor Jay - had come up to Gordon's office to personally point out that if they had already done every test they could carry out six times, doing them again for a seventh time was unlikely to give a different answer. Everyone was on double shifts, carrying out questioning, following leads, making patrols, and generally trying to work out what the hell was going on.

And those were only the problems stemming from _that specific_ case. Gotham proved quite enough to keep the police on their toes even at the best of times, and it wasn't going to put everything else on hold because they had their hands full already.

As if to remind him of this fact, the intercom on his desk buzzed. He pressed the button with a certain weary resignation: "Yes?"  
"_Commissioner Gordon_," Laura's voice came through the speakers; "_DA Fielding is here to see you._"  
"Wonderful." A sigh; "Alright then, send him in."

Gordon hadn't had the opportunity to get to know Terry Fielding yet. They'd bumped into each other once at some godawful charity fundraiser, and he hadn't been quite sure what to make of the man. He had the sort of friendly, open manner you couldn't help but trust. That was something Gordon instinctively mistrusted in anyone, especially a lawyer.

Fielding walked into the office with an easy smile on his lips, and Gordon stood to shake his hand. It was firm and steady, not that it meant anything. Gordon had never put much faith in the rubbish about judging someone by their handshake - all a steady handshake meant was that a person had to shake hands with strangers on a regular basis. Fielding was a clear head taller, looming over him a bit, but Gordon was unfortunately used to being shorter than most of his colleagues and didn't let it bother him.

"Please, take a seat," he said, sitting back down himself.  
"Thank you," Fielding replied, pulling out one of the chairs in front of the desk. "Your secretary's a lovely girl. Ah, to be young again."  
Gordon felt his eyebrows rising. If Fielding was a day over thirty-five, then he was the Queen of England. "You couldn't pay me to be that age again - the first time round was bad enough."  
"Really? What a shame. Anyway." Fielding's manner abruptly changed, suddenly all business. "I'd rather like to know why I have a succession of police officers trailing after me like lost puppies."  
"There's been a threat made against your life," Gordon explained patiently. "I'm sure my office must have told you."  
"Yes. But I've had plenty of threats on my life before now," Fielding said, stubborn and determined.  
Gordon gave a short laugh that had nothing to do with humour. "Those were more or less Commissioner Loeb's last words."  
"We're not dealing with the Joker this time." A flicker of worry crossed his face. "We're not, are we?"  
"No. No." Gordon pinched the bridge of his nose wearily and sighed. "How much _have_ my men told you?"  
Fielding looked unamused; "Very little."  
"Right then." Gordon pressed the intercom button again; "Laura, could you please get me the file on the Arkham case?"  
"_Of course, sir. I'll just be a minute_"  
"Thank you."

Gordon sat back in his seat and studied Fielding. Generally the lifespan of a Gotham DA tended to be rather limited: there had already been two threats to kill him, one of which had actually developed into an attack. But there hadn't been anything like this. Whoever had issued this threat was more than capable of carrying it out.

"I hear there was an attempt against your own life recently," Fielding commented.  
Gordon shrugged. "That was nothing major. Just a man with an elderly pistol and a brother in prison."  
"Nothing major? GCN had footage of you being rushed to hospital."  
"Did they?" Gordon winced. He was glad he hadn't ben watching the news lately. "It was just a flesh wound."  
"Attracting armed lunatics seems to be a professional hazard."  
"The DA and the Commissioner are always targets."  
"I'll say. I feel like I'm walking around with a bullseye on my chest."

There was a neat little rap at the door and Laura came in, carrying the file he'd asked for. She laid it on his desk and he nodded in thanks. The file was getting bulkier by the hour, padded out mainly by infuriatingly inconclusive test results.

"Here we are," Gordon said, opening the file. "How much do you know about the incident at Arkham?"  
"It was attacked, and the Director was found dead afterwards," Fielding said, looking puzzled with an option on irritated; "But what does that have to do with anything?"  
"Bear with me," Gordon replied. "At seven twenty-three am on Wednesday morning, Arkham Asylum was attacked by hired muscle. None of them knew anything apart from that they were getting paid for it. A few guards were killed, a few more injured, but there were no breakouts. None of the thugs got any further than the entrance hall. With me so far?"  
"Yes."  
"Well listen close, because this is the good bit. That was the situation when we arrived and set up a cordon around Arkham. The line held,we picked up a few of the attackers, and there wasn't any more fuss. The Director was uncomplimentary about how long it had taken us to get there."  
Fielding blinked. "The Director wasn't killed in the fighting?"  
"No, he was alive and well when we got there. But after that someone got in and out of the cordon without a single one of my men noticing. When we got to the Director's office, he was dead."  
He took out the crimescene photos and spread them out on the table. Fielding paled a little and swallowed hard, then marshalled himself and asked in an admirably steady voice; "And?"  
"The killer had left behind a little present for us."

He handed a copy of the photo they'd found with the Director to Fielding. His face went completely blank as he stared at it, and after a moment he laid the photo down again, very carefully.

"Oh," he said. "Not just an armed lunatic, then?"  
"Not really, no," Gordon replied. His opinion of the man had just gone up a few notches.  
"Well. Looks like I'll be playing host to some of Gotham's finest for a while to come then."  
"We'll try to inconvenince you as little as possible," Gordon said; "But you will have to be careful."  
Fielding gave a slightly shaky smile. "Yes, that...sounds like it might be a good idea."  
"If you wait downstairs, Lieutenant Harris will brief you on the basic security meaures."  
"Right. Yes." Fielding stood, still looking a little shell-shocked, and extended his hand; "Thank you."  
Gordon shook his hand again, and didn't fail to note that it was quite a bit less steady than last time. "You're welcome. Goodbye."  
"Goodbye."

He'd assigned Harris and Goldman to head up the protection detail. The debacle with Wuertz and Ramirez had brought home to him once again the value of constant paranoia, and Harris and Goldman were two of the few he was almost certain he could trust. Neither of them had been involved in anything particularly distasteful even in the old days, and they couldn't have family used as leverage over them the way Ramirez had: Harris had no living relatives, and Goldman's only surviving family member - her brother - lived in Ireland.

They were the easy ones. Between the Joker and the Narrows, most of the old guard had been wiped out, and he didn't know the transfers and new recruits well enough to judge how trustworthy they were. It was so much better to know whether or not someone could be trusted one way or the other, because at least then he knew to keep an eye on them. Ramirez, for example, had been demoted and put under surveillance rather than fired or prosecuted. After all, God knew he hadn't the right to judge anyone. He'd be the worst kind of hypocrite to deny her a second chance.

At around three in the afternoon, he finally tore himself away from his desk long enough to go out and get some lunch. He ate in the restaurant and prayed that no-one would find him there. _It had to be Gotham_, he thought wryly; _you had to end up in the one place even crazier than New York._

_Just my luck_.

_...to be continued..._


	4. Waiting for the Night

**Chapter Four - Waiting for the Night**

It was never quiet in the Gotham Police Department. No matter what the hour, there were always sounds of conversation, music: television sets always tuned to the news, radios crackling static, the distant sounds of people arguing. At all times there was noise and life. Which was one of the myriad reasons Gordon could think of why it was currently preferable to his empty, lifeless apartment.

There was always work to be doing. And while filling out requisition forms wasn't his idea of a good time, he'd rather that than staring at his bedroom ceiling with the empty half of the bed stretching out to fill the dead silence in the room. No, better to keep busy. Action had always been his strong suit. He'd discovered long ago that given time to sit and think, he was his own worst enemy.

He hadn't taken over Commissioner Loeb's office when he took the job. The story he'd given the Mayor was that the offices in City Hall had been proven unsafe, but the truth was that he hated City Hall, and had no intention of spending any more time there than absolutely necessary. Given a plausible excuse, the Mayor had been kind enough not to point out that Gotham PD didn't have a great track record either.

When you got right down to it, the truth was that nowhere in Gotham was safe. Granted things weren't as bad as they had been in the old days, but Gotham was still Gotham.

There was a knock at the door of his office and he looked up wearily, anticipating Laura about to announce another official visitor. Instead a young officer shuffled awkwardly in and gave a nervous salute.

"Yes?" Gordon said. He cast around for a name; "Sullivan, isn't it?"  
"Yes sir," Sullivan cleared his throat; "Ah, you asked to be told about anything unusual happening at Arkham?"  
Gordon pinched the bridge of his nose and asked with phenomenal restraint; "What is it this time?"  
"One of their psychiatrists has gone missing. Her flatmate says she never made it home last night."  
"Right." Gordon looked at his watch, and was slightly startled to note that somewhere along the line he'd lost twelve hours. Oh well. At least they had plenty of daylight to work with. "Get a squad over to her apartment and have the flatmate brought in for questioning. Laura?"  
She appeared in the doorway; "Yes sir?"  
"Call Arkham, let them know I'm on my way."  
"Yes sir," Laura agreed.

By the time she got through to Arkham he was already pulling out of the car park. While the situation wasn't quite as urgent as the last time he'd driven to Arkham in a hurry, he still didn't show the greatest respect for traffic safety laws. Honking howns and shrieked obscenities followed him down the streets. He made a mental note to stop driving like that: it would be embarrassing in the extreme to get pulled over by his subordinates.

The streets were busy: cars and pedestrians flashing past, little glimpses of ordinary lives. It was amazing how quickly people had bounced back in the last couple of months. Gotham bred a particular kind of hard-headed resilience in her citizens, and it would take more than a maniac blowing up buildings and public figures to shake them out of their stubborn little routines.

The staff at Arkham seemed more than a little surprised to see him. Belatedly it occurred to him that it probably wasn't normal for the Commissioner to deal with this sort of thing personally.

He was greeted at the reception by a young man with a mop of blonde hair and a slight limp. "Commissioner," he said, shaking his hand; "It's good of you to come on such short notice. I'm Dr. Lynch: I've been running things around here unofficially since Director Handley was murdered."  
_And probably for a while before that_, Gordon thought, taking in a calmly competent manner and sharp, intelligent eyes. He nodded in acknowledgement. "It's no trouble at all. Is there somewhere we can talk?"  
"Of course."

Lynch led the way through the grim, labyrinthine corridors and stairwells of Arkham to a cramped little office overflowing with files. He shifted a pile of boxes to reveal a rickety chair and gestured for Gordon to sit.

"Sorry about this," Lynch said, squeezing past the desk to get to his own chair; "Usually any visitors would be taken to the Director's office, but under the circumstances..."  
"It's fine," Gordon said. He sat gingerly on the chair, half expecting it to collapse under his weight; "You should see the state of my office."

Lynch gave a fleeting smile and carefully slipped a file out of a large stack to his left. How he knew which of the hundred identical files was the correct one was a mystery to Gordon. But nevertheless, he took the file when Lynch handed it to him and opened it. A photograph of a pretty young woman smiled back at him from the front page. The name on the folder was Harleen Quinzel.

"Harley's shift was supposed to start at eight this morning," Lynch said. "She's usually here on time, so when she didn't show up we thought something might be wrong. After all, in a town like Gotham you can't be too careful. There was no reply on her cell, so we called her apartment and her flatmate told us she hadn't come home last night."  
Gordon nodded; "We've taken her in for questioning. What time did Dr. Quinzel leave last night?"  
"About half past six reception said." He frowned; "Which is a bit odd, actually."  
"Oh?"  
"She was supposed to finish at seven. In all the time I've worked here, I've never known her to leave early before. If anything she'd usually work late."  
"I see," Gordon drummed his fingers on the desk; "Do you know if she was involved in anything that...might be related to her disappearance?"  
Lynch snorted; "Was she bent, you mean? I wouldn't think so. I got the impression she didn't have much of a life outside of here. Never known anyone like her for doing overtime. She enjoyed her work."  
"What exactly was her work?"  
"Maximum security." He shrugged; "She had a way with the really crazy ones."  
"Had there been any incidents lately?" Gordon grimaced; "Apart from the obvious, that is."  
"No. It's been very quiet."  
"Right then. Thank you for your time." He stood, casting a swift glance at the door. He sincerely hoped he could remember the way back to the reception. There had been an awful lot of twisting little corridors.  
"I'll see you out," Lynch said with a knowing little smile.

Perhaps it was because they were coming out of the maze rather than going deeper into it, but the walls didn't seem as close, the shadows a little less dark and ominous. As they turned out into a wider hallway there was even a _window_. God Arkham must have been a depressing place to work.

"Not much further," Lynch said. Round the next corner was a flight of stairs, and he hesitated for the briefest of moments before carrying on down the steps, leaning on the bannister.  
"Are you alright?" Gordon asked.  
"I'm fine," Lynch replied. In the face of a pointedly sceptical expression he elaborated in a tone which suggested that he gave the same explanation fairly often; "Broke my leg during that mess with Crane's fear toxin. It never really healed properly."  
"I'm sorry."  
"Don't be. I came out of it with my life and my sanity. That's more than most can say."

They parted at the reception with rain rattling off of the windows. Footsteps on the cold tiled floors echoed from the walls, lights buzzing faintly in their safety cages of wire mesh. In the distance someone was screaming.

"Here," Lynch said, handing him a little square of paper; "My card. Give me a call if there's any news about Harley."  
"I will," Gordon said. He pocketed the card. "Goodbye."  
"Bye."

It wasn't until he closed his car door and the tension flowed out of him that he realised just how uncomfortable Arkham made him. If it took a certain sort of mind to take living near the asylum, that must have gone doubly so for those who worked there.

He drove just under the speed limit all the way back to the station.

[..._to be continued_...]


End file.
